As you may have guessed by my writing in this publication, during term time I live in the sunny city of Leeds. However, my home town is a popular seaside resort on the East Coast; you know, the kind of place where people would die to live, and rightly so. However, its beauty can be a curse, and during the summer holidays, life there can begin to share similarities with a bizarre apocalyptic scenario.

“Oh, you’re so lucky to live by the beach!” I hear you cry. “You must go all the time!” But it couldn’t be further from the truth, most coastal dwellers are lucky if they visit the sands more than a few times per year. For the vast majority of the time, the North Sea wind lends itself to creating a climate not too dissimilar from the sub-arctic tundra. As soon as the weather is more favourable, every inch of the coast is covered in sun-ravaged British skin, and businesses for miles around are desperately pleading for extra help. Alas, instead of squeezing yourself into the melee of tourists, you must make the proverbial hay while the sun shines. Expect to emerge from your place of work in September with a milky hue seen only during Icelandic winter.

But the tourists aren’t just on the beach, they’re everywhere. They’re in the supermarkets, in the streets, in the middle of moving traffic; the amount of people that can fit in such a small town is so disgusting it’s impressive. As a result it can be difficult to have what some people would call a ‘normal life’. Want to park in the town centre? Forget about it. Do your weekly food shopping? I admire your ambition, kid. Walk down the street? Invest in a jetpack. But how do you avoid the holiday rush? Even the unstoppable juggernaut of the pensioners’ coach trip is slow going. My expert advice is to buy and stockpile all food and supplies months in advance of the peak season, nuclear bunker style. That way you can avoid venturing out into the madness unless absolutely essential.

So you’ve got enough tinned peaches for three months, but you’ve just realised you have a dog, who’s looking at you with an intense longing which can only mean one thing: walkies. As you’re not a cruel owner, and you quite like your dog really, you decide to brave the great outdoors in the name of love, friendship and man’s best friend. You meticulously plan your route, and wake up at the crack of dawn in a desperate attempt to avoid the mid-morning tidal wave of tourists. You step outside your door and breathe a sigh of relief; the coast is clear. You begin to relax, you must be safe now, and you’re starting to get almost too relaxed.

Just as you think you’ve got away with it, from around the corner comes a gleaming beacon of middle-aged flesh. Your hands fly up in front of your face, desperately trying to shield your eyes, but it’s too late, the image is forever burned into your retinas. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am all in favour of freedom of expression, especially with regard to what you decide to wear. But something tells me a portly man in his fifties wouldn’t walk around his own home town clad in nought but sandals and tiny, tiny shorts. It’s Yorkshire, not the Costa del Sol. I suggest that if you ever find yourself somewhat deficient of clothing while walking through a residential area, until you reach a more appropriate location, e.g. the beach, keep all of that glorious body under wraps, even if just to prevent any further loss of sight.

By now you’ve had enough, you’ve seen enough barely clothed midlife bodies to last you a lifetime, and you desire more than anything to get out of this godforsaken place. However, the universe has other plans. You have a car? Fantastic, get out as soon as possible, but try not to bankrupt yourself in the process. Local companies have the unfortunate proclivity to charge extortionate rates for their wares, including fuel, to wring every stray penny from unsuspecting tourists and disgruntled residents. However, if you’re among those who find driving a rather tedious business, then your luck has run out. If you live in a seaside town, especially a rural one, the government and local council apparently don’t care about you enough to provide you with anything approaching regular and reasonably priced transport. They instead seem to expect for you to hand-fashion some kind of makeshift rickshaw in order for you to travel anywhere that’s more than a couple of miles away. Alternatively, you can pretend to be an old lady and try to smuggle yourself back on a coach trip from Newcastle. However, this is a bit mean as an old lady would have lost her ride home, and we’ve already established that you’re not evil.

So there’s no way out, it appears that you are stuck here for the rest of eternity, or whenever the next bus arrives… But I’ve got a feeling that the former may come quicker. If you should ever find yourself in this hellish predicament, instead of curling up by the side of the road and consigning yourself to a hunger strike until someone removes you from the situation, I suggest that you start enjoying yourself. What’s that you say? I’ve spent this whole article persuading you that life by the sea is completely overrated and bordering on horrific? I know, but hear me out; there must be a reason why all of these people are here in the first place. Look around you, it’s beautiful! The sunlight emanating from the glistening bald heads lining the beach, the sweet song of seagulls fighting over a chip, the heady aroma of seaweed washing in from the waves, it’s wonderful really. You could be living in a sprawling concrete metropolis that has ‘shops’ and ‘trains’, but instead you live in one of the most desirable places in the country. Give yourself a pat on the back, you deserve it. Now go and get an ice cream and have a sit down, you’re going to need it after all that…

Brigitte Phillips